How she had come to cherish this stranger in her life! Because of him, she had talked, and danced, and laughed, and kissed! She'd been so isolated in her manor, and now she was truly part of her village and her dale.

But this was her home, where she belonged. What of his home? What if she went to him now, and then he left her behind?

I think I'd rather know physical love one more time than live the rest of my life without it. It wasn't wise, perhaps, but it was true. She wasn't sure she was strong enough to turn away from the dark longing in his gaze, even if she did believe it was for the best. She ached so.

Oh, to be held, to be touched, to be pleasured!

By him.

That was the crux of it, wasn't it? This man wasn't simply a handsome creature equipped with all the necessary pleasuring apparatus, was he? He was Lysander, reader of poetry, uncomplaining carrier of water and chicken feed, creator of rose bowers and nights of moonlit wonder.

She wanted very badly for what was in his eyes to be real. Yet she didn't know what to believe. Life didn't truly work that way. Handsome, mysterious strangers didn't ride into town and fall in love with exhausted, work-worn widows!

Yet she marveled that he had done such mad, extravagant thing as tonight's assembly for her, simply because of a chance comment she'd made about never having attended a ball. He clearly was not helpless. He was no longer a patient.

He was a man.

Need. Lust. Admiration. Longing. She didn't know what to do with the tumult of emotion she felt when she looked at him, standing there, waiting for her, patiently allowing her time to make up her own mind.

And that was what decided her.

If she turned and left him at this moment, he would not pursue her. She knew that about him, if she knew little else. He would respect her wishes. He would let her go, and have faith it was what she needed to do.

He believed in her.

It was that belief in his shadowed gaze which kept her standing right where she was, despite all common sense and propriety. It had bolstered her when she'd set the little boy's broken leg. It had allowed her to let her guard down for one night, to dance, and laugh, and kiss.

LYSANDER WAITED. GEMMA SEEMED to be thinking about something, very hard. He did not dare hope it was the same thing he was thinking.

Damn, she was beautiful.

Lysander knew a bit more about women's fashions than most, due to the fact that Elektra would never shut up about it. He knew that Lementeur was a master at bringing out hidden beauty and overlooked virtues. Of course, the gown was stunning.

It didn't matter to him. Gemma would have looked beautiful dressed in a flour sack belted with twine.